Sadist
by tuesdaysonthephonetome
Summary: It makes her feel in control, like her stupid lists. If she hurts them first, maybe they won’t hurt her. Like he did. Oneshot.


**Summary: **It makes her feel in control, like her stupid lists. If she hurts them first, maybe they won't hurt her. Like he did. Oneshot.

**A/N:** Rory, post-finale. This started out as a Rory angst oneshot, and turned into more of a Rory moment-of-clarity oneshot. There's still that angst, but unlike_Masochist_, this one ends fairly happily. I actually wrote this a number of weeks ago, and I must've read it over upwards of 13 times to make sure it was good. Reviews are my bread and butter, please tell me what you think.

**Disclaimer:** I wish I owned Jess...but alas.

* * *

_Fingers were intertwined beyond navigation and her whole world was made up of brown and blue. Interconnected, unwavering, fixated and infinite. It was a moment. It was all they had. His lips breathed over hers and she heard cellos playing violently and beautifully. She wondered what he heard when she leaned into him. His hands were soft on her face but destructive on her heart. She felt him silently, unknowingly possess her and she knew she was his. She gasped for air and drowned in brown. It was a moment. It was all they had._

It's gone now. She let it go. She let him walk off and now she's someone else. She messed up.

He tried to undo it. Twice. He tried twice to go back to those moments, and she said no. She messed up.

She broke him. She let him come back because she wanted him to come back but she refused to follow the same pattern, refused to meet him, to make contact. She hurt him. She messed up. And now she can't see how to fix it. She needs to fix it. She's not her anymore and she can't fix it.

There was another. After him. She thought that one was the one she wanted. She loved him. She thought it was perfect. But she hurt him too. She let him come to her because she wanted him to come to her but she refused to walk the same way, couldn't meet him, unable to make contact. She hurt him too. She messed up. She needs to fix it.

She stares out the window and sees grey. Grey streets and grey buildings and grey falling from the sky. She once knew color.

_He smiled at her crookedly and handed her a book. She groaned. She told him she couldn't do it. He responded by comparing her to the Little Engine That Could and then, when she raised her eyebrows at him, inquiring as to whether her mother had ever told her she could do anything she put her mind to. She admitted that she had and he bobbed his head once as though that settled it. She gave in, but informed him that he had to live up to his side of the bargain. He threw his head back into a full groan and whined that she'd already made him eat that disgusting whatever-it-was from her tiny basket and the taste of it was still haunting his mouth even after the six slices of pepperoni pizza he'd just consumed and she was still making him read that horrible woman's writing? She smiled and responded with a succinct yes. He mock glared at her. She mock glared back. The corners of her mouth twitched as he sighed resignedly. He disappeared behind a bookshelf and she almost missed the sight of him despite herself. He was back a moment later, carrying a thin paperback which he handed to her. She looked down at it, surprised. He explained that it was for her mother and confirmed that she did say her mother wanted to read it. She nodded. He remembered._

Vibrant colors. Overwhelming colors. Glorious colors. Colors that faded long ago. Now she looks out the window and all she sees is grey.

She strikes the window with her hand, unable to look out and not see those colors. She wishes for them to walk back in her life. This time, if they tell her to come she'll follow. This time, if they ask if she's fixed everything she'll answer honestly. This time, anything to have them back. But they're gone. He's not coming back, and he is the colors. Why would he come back when she's hurt him so many times?

She hurts people. She hurt him, she hurt the other one, she hurt the first one, she hurt her mother, her family, herself. She hurts people, and she can't understand what she's become. There's moisture on her face and she doesn't know where it came from. She can't be crying, she stopped crying. After the other one left, she just stopped. Tears are foreign to her, and yet they're on her face. Thinking of him - thinking of his colors. It's like he's closer, somehow, and yet she knows he's not coming back.

_He looked at her across the apartment and sighed. She sat on his uncle's bed and wiped her face dry. He crossed the small space of floor to her and hesitantly reached for her hands. She let him take them in his, let him pull her up so she was standing in front of him. He whispered an apology and she muttered that she didn't know what was wrong. He said he knew. She started crying a little again and he enveloped her with his arms, kissing her head. She told him that she wanted to stay there, he told her he did too. His voice almost cracked when he said it. She heard pain in his voice. Pain and fear. She thought she must be imagining things. He didn't feel pain, he didn't feel fear. He held her when she felt pain, protected her when she felt fear. His voice was always steady, always secure. She took comfort in his voice. His voice now was more frightening to her than when he had been yelling at her five minutes ago. It unnerved her even more than the look of anger he'd had in his brown eyes just moments ago. She looked up into his face and he stared back into her eyes hungrily, longingly, sadly, regretfully. She looked away, fear clutching her heart. Somehow she knew what that look meant, what the tone of his voice was begging her to hear even though his words desperately tried to hide it. As she looked into his eyes she knew she was losing him. She knew he'd be gone soon. She was almost paralyzed with fear. She looked up at him again, desperate for some sign that she was wrong. He smiled at her lopsidedly. Sadly. And he kissed her. Mournfully. She was so gripped with the terror of losing him, she couldn't stand there with him anymore. She had to get away from his sadness and his fear, because it was driving her into terror and grief and she couldn't go to him for comfort. If he couldn't comfort her, she was alone. She pulled away from him, mumbling something about her mom wanting her home, and took off out the door. In her rush, she didn't see his bag lying, packed, in the corner._

She wipes away more of those damn tears, thinking that he hurt her too. Thinking it's not all her fault. Thinking she's not completely to blame. Thinking she can argue herself into being the victim. She can't.

With disgust she thinks she must have become a sadist. Somewhere down the line she cracked and now she takes some sort of sick pleasure in hurting other people. It's the only way she can explain all the people she's hurt. Without a thought. Without a glance. It makes her feel in control, like her stupid lists. If she hurts them first, maybe they won't hurt her. Like he did.

She cries for the people she's hurt. The people she's lost. She has to do something. She calls her mom. She tearfully apologizes for becoming who she is. For making her mom feel like she couldn't be her mom. For dropping out of school, for how she handled things with the other one, with the first one, with him. Her mom tries to comfort her, but she needs to keep going. She says goodbye and calls her grandparents. She leaves an equally tearful message on their cold and impersonal machine. When it's over, she lets her head fall into her hands. She's not done. She needs to keep going.

She calls him. She wants him to answer. She wants to get his voicemail. She wants...

He answers. She tries to speak, but can't. He thinks there's no one there. He can't hang up. She sputters out a greeting. He pauses. She hears pain in the silence, but this time it hurts her, and she's glad. She doesn't feel in control. She's lost control. This is her trying to get it back. He finally greets her back. There's pain in that too. She asks him how the store is. He politely answers. She doesn't know what he said. She bursts into apologies and tears and laughter and he must think she's crazy. She finally stops and there's silence again, but this time there's less pain. She listens, and almost thinks she can hear hope. Maybe that's her. He tells her he's glad she called and she chokes back another hysterical laugh as she thinks of Ayn Rand and picnics and bridges. He's smiling. She can hear it.

It's a moment.

She thinks of healing and smiles. She presses the phone into her ear painfully because it make her feel closer to him. She looks out the window.

The colors are back.


End file.
